Mindy and Shirin back off to avoid getting cut. When I stop spinning, the sandstorm stops too, as if it was my struggling that was causing it to gust around me in the first place. It’s like the storm when I visited the bungalow with Yuki. My apprehension was what darkened the sky. My thoughts are what makes me suffer.
SILENCE. The desert is at peace. Beauty resides in stark isolation.
All I hear is my breathing. I hate Mindy and Shirin, but they’re right. I’m alone. We all are.
I use the utility knife and CUT across my LEFT WRIST.
Blood runs into the sand. The only peace is a quieted mind, and the only way to truly quiet my mind is to die.
Blood runs from [Eric’s] wrist onto the floor. The cut is deep enough that the severed nerves cause his hand to curl. Off screen, Monique or Clara screams. Eric tries to switch the blade to his left hand, but his left hand can no longer grip and so the blade clatters to the floor. While he keeps trying to get his hand to obey, Victor steps into frame, a hypodermic needle raised.
He stabs the needle into the nape of Eric’s neck. (Sartain, 211)
The desert takes my blood.
Out of nowhere, a bee stings my neck. A world without flowers shouldn’t have bees.
I lift my left hand to the sting. Blood splatters my shirt from my open wrist. It’s surprisingly wet against my chest as the fabric absorbs the fluid.
Shirin talks in my ear. “They never cared.”
The storm rages again.
Mindy and Shirin TURN TO SAND and BLOW AWAY. I thought the storm would stop once I resigned myself to ending my life, but now the wind is stronger than ever.
I’m too weak to stand, and I drop to my knees, alone. Always alone.
Then the sandstorm becomes so intense it BLACKS EVERYTHING OUT.
The roar in the BLACK is deafening, like the sound of a tidal wave. It’s so loud, I don’t know if it’s getting even louder or slowly fading to silence.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Final Part Two
SLOW FADE IN:
On hot sand, I wake with Bram’s video camera at my feet. My head pounds as if from a hangover, like from back in the days when I used to get wasted. I remember pushing that frat bro aside to puke whiskey into the toilet. I curled up on the tile floor and cursed Shirin because I hated her and loved her and hated her and loved her. Now alone in the sand, I try to move, and my wrist stings bad enough to make my jaw drop and force from my throat sounds of agony.
Using my good arm, I sit up. Wow. Slitting my wrist seemed like a good idea at the time, but in the harsh perspective of after, not so much. No wonder I originally wanted to off myself using pills.
Before I passed out, the end of hope crushed me like a bug. In a script, there is a moment at the end of act two where it feels like all is lost, the dark night of the soul. That’s what it felt like. Now the darkness has lifted.
As far as the eye can see, sand glitters under the blazing sun and blue sky. I'm alone, but don’t feel as lonely. I’m not really in a desert, I decide, but it all looks pretty convincing.
For some reason I’m better, but far from well.
I gingerly touch my bandage. Someone saved me; I didn’t wrap my own wrist. I search the horizon for any signs of life. My friends are looking out for me. I have to have faith.
I have to find them.
Mannequins dressed in BP clothing dot the sand dunes.
“Hi, guys.” I wave with my good hand.
The people I thought were my friends were these mannequins. How long have I been in this desert, losing my mind?
No. My friends aren’t mannequins. I have real friends. I just can’t see them. All I see is desert. All I feel is heat from the sun. Don’t panic.
My phone! I take out my phone, but it doesn’t have any power. When was the last time I charged it?
Damn it!
I want my sanity back. I want reality. I scan the expanse for a doorway. What if there’s no way to find my way back again? What if this is it?
Bram’s video camera! I pluck it from the sand, blow it off, and press rewind. Maybe I can find out what happened to me. I can hear the tape rewinding inside.
I squint at the SUN high in the sky. I need shelter. And water. Dehydration can’t be far off, especially after the blood loss.
I randomly press play.
The VIEWFINDER shows me staring at an extended blade in my hands. I typically open boxes with that blade. In the footage, I’m in the checkout section. No cracks form in the walls, no sand comes in. All that sand was part of my delusion.
“Come on, Eric,” Victor says in the video, trying to get the weapon from me. “Put it down. You're gonna hurt someone. We’re here. Everything will be okay.”
I thought it was Mindy and Shirin talking to me, but it was Victor trying to help.
No! What have I done? On the VIEWFINDER, the footage shows me spin around and slice Victor in the shoulder.
I stop the video camera. If I killed someone, I couldn’t bare knowing. I’ve already exiled myself to a desert. What would my mind do if I found out I killed Victor? I would create my own hell.
I press rewind. The noise of the gears turning the spindle is better than the sound of the empty desert wind.
I get up.
“Hello!?” The imaginary dunes start to scare me. There’s no one, just the mannequins and more and more burning sand. I could pick a direction at random and walk, but would that do any good?
I press play again.
On the VIEWFINDER, the scientist wears a gas mask. “I'm authorized to give you the treatment. All you have to do is sign these nondisclosure agreements. And hand over the camera.”
“No ruttin' way,” I hear Bram say.
“Is this everyone?” She’s looking around. “Is there anyone in the back?” She wants to make sure all the BP workers sign to minimize the inevitable class action lawsuit.
If that’s what people have to do to get better, everyone will sign. BP will cover all this up somehow… They’ve blamed it on protesters before. They can blame it on terrorism and get away with the whole damn thing.
On the VIEWFINDER, JuanCarlos takes her by the collar and pins her against the wall. The shot tracks them to keep her face in frame.
“We talk to Matthew Weber,” JuanCarlos says.
“We want answers,” Victor says off screen
“We were promised Matthew Weber.” It’s my voice. I sound shrill and desperate, and as I talk, she pulls her mask to the top of her head.
I get an idea and stop the footage.
If I can see the past, maybe I can see the present. It can’t hurt to try. I press record.
The VIEWFINDER SCREEN switches to a real-time view of the BP stockroom. I pan around: Tara is dead on the floor where we left her. Once I see her, I can smell the blood.
This is a way for me to see reality.
Sand gets into my shoes as I pivot, but on the VIEWFINDER, I see Bram crouched in the corner of the stockroom. He’s a scared kid, no longer the hard-edged anarchist. He looks up. He’s dazed and gives me a weak smile.
“You got some great footage, but we haven’t got the founder, have we?”
“No. At least we got the scientist confessing. But my footage is so shaky. No one will watch that shit.”
“It looked fine.”
“They told me to watch over you, but I think the pheromone is finally getting to me. Hey, you’re recording. I thought I was out of tape.”
“It looks like you have some left.”
“You should save it.”
I stop recording and still see Bram through the viewfinder. I realize I was recording over some of his footage. I hope it wasn’t anything important.
“I’m not going to make the final cut,” he says. “No one will watch my shit! I’ll be lost to some archive.” I think he might be crying, but it’s hard to tell on such a small screen.
“Where did they go?” I say. “Victor and JuanCarlos. I can only see reali
ty through this damn camera.”
On the VIEWFINDER, Bram shakes his head. The power display in the corner blinks the icon for low battery. If the camera turns off, I’ll have no way to see.
“The battery has had it,” Bram says. “It will turn off again any second. Do you have a phone that takes video?”
I shake my head at the screen. “Mine’s out of power. You?”
“Abigail convinced me that they were using our phones to track us, so we dumped them.”
To my right, I hear a handle turn and the sound of footsteps. Instinctively, I glance over, but only see desert. I need to look through the viewfinder to see anything real. I pan and see Abigail with a syringe and a laptop. She kneels beside Bram and sets her laptop down.
“Where is everyone?” I say.
On the VIEWFINDER, Abigail injects Bram in the arm. “We all signed,” she says. “We didn't have a choice. I talked with Monique though. I made a deal. Matthew Weber is waiting in the other room now that they have the place locked down. I said I’d sign if they let you talk to him, Eric, face to face. You’re feeling better, right?”
I nod.
“Then here is your opportunity to record his confession.”
On the VIEWFINDER, Bram smiles up at her. “Shiny,” he says. They look at each other for a tender moment. Abigail came back for Bram, not me. I’m happy they have each other.
“You better go,” she tells me. “I’m not sure how long Weber will wait around.”
I'm still by myself in the desert, looking at a viewfinder screen. I’m thankful Abigail helped me, but why aren’t Victor and JuanCarlos here? And Marshall left too. I feel a chill.
“They left me,” I say to myself.
The sun falls below the horizon, casting the desert into total darkness. The small screen is starkly bright compared to the black all around. “I'm not sure I'm sane enough. Can’t you do it?”
On the VIEWFINDER, Abigail shrugs. “I was abducted by aliens once. They’re now waiting out front. I think we’re in the same boat. Just hurry. I need to stay with Bram. Make sure they don’t take the camera. We still need to transfer the footage so I can upload it to the net. I already have a website set up. Just get the confession and get back here.”
I use the camera to find my way. The checkout section isn’t far. All I have to do is walk through the stockroom and through the door, and I’ll be near the registers. I can’t believe Matthew Weber is just a few yards away.
The light of the camera screen illuminates my face. It's the only light. The darkness feels like an abyss like I’m out in space, and my tether is this tiny screen.
I look out into the black. Something moves out there, but it must be my eyes playing tricks.
The screen goes out. The camera has run out of power.
The darkness is vast and complete and horrifying.
“Abigail! It’s out of power. I can’t see!”
My eyes start to adjust, and I discern a mass of forms maybe ten yards in front of me. It’s hard to judge the distance when it’s so dark.
“Hello?”
What is that? It’s like a formation of rocks or a bundle of gravestones.
“I can’t see.”
But I can. Something in the darkness is out there. The forms aren’t just in front of me; they’re in all directions. The more I look, the more I see.
I blink, trying to get my eyes to adjust faster. The things, they aren’t tombstones; they’re alive. I can just make out gray eyes and silver teeth that catch the low light. Hundreds of creatures, a sea of them, have emerged from the dunes. Their faces are everywhere.
“Abigail? If you can hear me, I can’t see! I need help!”
My birthday present!
“Abigail! Do you see my camera? I think I left it on the counter. Is it on the counter near the back door?”
I can hear a clicking. It’s clicking teeth.
“Next to the mannequin! Hurry!”
Something pulls at the camera in my hands. I jump back, yelping a terrified cry. The thing pulls again, gently this time, and soft fingers pry my hands loose. I relent and let the darkness take Bram’s camera.
It’s quickly replaced with another plastic object. I feel around its many edges. I open its viewfinder and turn on the power.
I scan for Abigail.
On the VIEWFINDER: She’s still in the stock room, looking at me. “Are you okay? Can you hear me?”
“I hear you. I’m okay. Just a little shaken. Fuck! I think my camera is almost out of power too. I need to hurry. Thanks, Abigail. Without you, I would’ve been screwed.”
“Just go. We’ll be here.”
I watch my hand on the VIEWFINDER. I reach out and grope along the wall until I reach the door. It’s time to face Matthew Weber.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Matthew Weber
26.1
On the VIEWFINDER, I make my way toward the checkout section. There’s a wad of bloody shirts hidden in the corner, the ones Clara used to clean up the TVs. This would be a great location to film The Walking Dead. Fiona won’t be getting her modeling contract, Hunter won’t be getting advice on starting his own brand, and no one will be getting a bonus for meticulously executing Weber’s vision, that’s for sure.
Dawn banishes the darkness, and I look around without the camera. I see the desert, but it's not the desert, it’s a poster. I’m back in the BP store, back in reality.
I continue to rely on the camera, not trusting my eyes just yet.
On the VIEWFINDER, a man stands in front of the checkout counter, dress in BP clothing. It’s MATTHEW WEBER, in real life. He looks much like he did in the orientation video, only with a different BP shirt.
I look up from the viewfinder.
He wears a dirty Santa suit. I’m confident I’m imagining the suit, but besides that one detail, everything else is the same as the image on the viewfinder screen. He's in the same place near the checkout counter. He has the same displeased look.
“You really made a mess of things. This is not the ideal shopping experience I want you guys to strive for.”
I ignore him and take a few more moments to get orientated. Catalog pages cover the floor. It doesn’t seem like anyone else is here. It’s just Weber and me.
I keep comparing everything in the room to what’s on the viewfinder. Besides the Santa suit, it’s all the same.
The sting in my neck must have been the antidote. I’m getting better. And unlike everyone else, I haven’t signed any legal documents.
This is my moment to make things right, to face the perpetrator.
I press record.
The footage resumes with a striking image of catalog pages strewn on the floor. The shot tilts up to reveal Matthew Weber. He stands in the checkout section, dressed in his trademark casual BP clothing. He speaks to the camera. “You must be Eric Loan. I heard a lot about you. A lot of people follow your lead. So think about what you’re doing very carefully. People are depending on you. We talk and then you sign the papers. Agreed?”
The footage cuts off. (Sartain, 230)
The viewfinder screen goes black. My camera is out of power too, just like Bram’s camera, just like my phone. I have nothing to record his confession. I close and reopen the viewfinder. I laugh in disbelief.
“I was going to have you confess, but the damn camera ran out of power.”
“You have to understand; I simply did what I had to do to remain competitive.”
I can smell the stench of the Santa suit now. He isn’t wearing it, I remind myself. I saw what he’s really wearing through the viewfinder, but part of me isn’t so sure. Losing my camera has shaken my confidence.
“You're the Santa,” I say.
“I beg your pardon?”
I don’t mean it literally, but he doesn’t know that. I have a sudden, desperate need for him to understand. “I drove my friends away. They couldn't handle my depression. All because of what some drunk Santa did years ago. And so I got over it, an
d I made new friends. And now it's happening again. You're the new Santa. You did this.”
“Just sign these papers and I'll help however I can. You don’t have to be alone in this. My lawyers--”
“The Santa was charged with disorderly conduct. He got off with a slap on the wrist. You’re not going to be getting off with a slap on the wrist, Mr. Weber.”
“Don’t you dare do anything uncouth. There’s a SWAT team. All I have to do is say the word.”
I look around the floor for the shotgun that killed Tara. I don’t see it anywhere. Someone must’ve taken it. The catalog smell is strong. It’s not just the scattered pages on the floor. I follow the scent to Hunters sleeping bag. Yep, another catalog. “These are like cockroaches.” I shake my head. “You can never really get rid of them. Do you even realize what you’ve done?”
God help me, I yearn for the catalog. Escape will always have its appeal. But at the same time, my friends are more important.
JuanCarlos barges in. I can’t say how relieved I am to see him; I almost cry. Behind him are Clara and Riley. They didn’t desert me after all. I give the camera to Clara. “Give me your knife,” I say to JuanCarlos.
He hands over his switchblade. “What are ya gonna do?”
“Dude!” Weber says. “We didn't know the catalog would cause people to become violent. There were a few deaths in the beginning, but… The board gave the go ahead; it wasn't just me.” He’s shaking.
Even if a SWAT team waits outside, as he claims, he still feels vulnerable enough to beg for mercy. Plus, my friends got by them just fine.
“Wrong move, Mr. Founder. This is no time to bluff.”
He looks down at the catalog pages on the floor. “Take me back. Don't let him kill me!”
The founder must have scattered these catalog pages on the floor. Why would he do that?
I put the knife to his throat and force him to look up. “Who are you talking to?”
“The people in my catalog. We created the fantasy so that the customer would have something to long for, something to aspire to. We had to close stores; people were losing their jobs! The board was going to remove me from my own company! I had to do something. We were researching a new cologne… The answer to all my problems was right there. How could I resist? What do you think advertising is supposed to do anyway? It’s meant to create a need in the consumer that our product can solve.”